


Oh, Shut Up

by allofthepixels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthepixels/pseuds/allofthepixels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re at a party (not by choice) and meet a sort of bizarre and stupidly endearing IPA drinking hipster. </p><p>(I got prompted to try some second-person OC stuff and I did it and it was kinda trash but whatever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Shut Up

You hated these things. Looking around the surprisingly spacious living room of your friend’s apartment, you take in the dim lights and the crowd of rowdy undergrads with a sigh. You’re getting too old for this.

You only came because your friend had begged you to be her “wing girl” while she romanced/seduced her mechanical engineering TA. You wanted to tell her “no” and spend your night re-watching “Homeward Bound” for the fifth time since you’ve downloaded it, but remembered how long it took you to convince her to wait until the end of the semester to go after the famous and elusive Dean Winchester.

You tug at the haphazardly rolled up sleeves of your denim shirt and fight back another sigh, eventually finding a comfortable spot along the wall to people-watch without being in the way of the crowds.

You caught sight of your friend chatting to a tall, green-eyed man you recognized from some sneaky snapchats over the semester. Seems like she’s cornered Dean already, though judging by the way his shoulders turned toward her and the way he watched her intently as she spoke gave the impression he wasn’t complaining. 

You head back into the kitchen, taking one of your friend’s beers and snapping it open. If she wanted your brand of peripheral and sardonic moral support, the least she could do was provide for your buzz.

“Excuse me.” a voice came from your left, softly urging you to step aside from the fridge. The man stood about a head taller than you, with wild dark hair that stuck up in different directions and just the right amount of stubble. Stupid handsome. 

He leaned down to put his six pack of beer, some pretentious looking IPA from the look of it, on the shelf and you totally did not watch the way his jeans hugged his ass. You averted your eyes when he stood up, beer in hand. He popped the top and gave you an upward head nod, greeting with a lazy salute before shuffling back into the living room.

Weird.

You follow his lead, posting back up to the corner and watching a couple of freshman (who you are certain weren’t invited) to attempt a keg stand. You contemplated walking by and muttering something about an “underage bust” to scare them out and give yourself a little entertainment. Instead you shuffle over to the couch and pull your friend’s sleeping cat onto your lap, ignoring his squeaking surprised meow as you flip him over for a belly rub.

“I take it this isn’t your type of party,” you see it’s crazy hair, IPA guy and nod as he sits next to you, reaching a hand to scratch behind the cat’s ear. “But I approve of your distraction tactics. Ten out of ten.”

“God knows I needed someone’s approval,” you hum as the cat begins to purr. You bend down and kiss its nose.

“I’m Castiel,” the man offered, clearing his throat and tugging at the messily rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. “Cas, for short.”

You introduce yourself, taking a bit of time to shamelessly give him a once over. He’s dressed well in dark blue jeans that have faded just the right amount and a flannel with shades of blue that manage to brighten his eyes. His unkempt hair works to give him that absentminded intellectual sort of look. Your favorite dreamy hipster archetype. 

“So, do you live here or?” He takes a sip of his beer, leaning forward to speak over the music.

“Practically,” you say, telling him how your friend wanted you to come along, casually mentioning that you were a “wing girl” for her semester-long conquest. He chuckles, glancing over your head. You turn around and see he’s looking at Dean and your friend, who have shifted into a far more intimate position: his hands resting along her jean-clad rear and her arms around his neck. 

“Mission successful,” you smile, rolling your eyes at the PDA. “I guess I’m out of a job, though.” 

“My roommate, Dean, is really fond of her,” Cas smiles and your eyes widen.

“Oh shit! You heard nothing from me about the semester-long crush,” you lean forward, closer to his face. You feel him let out a breath. “It didn’t happen.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” he holds up his hands in mock defense. 

You put down the empty bottle a little to your left and the cat squirms out of your lap, strutting through keg-standers and rubbing against their legs. 

“Need another?” Cas stands, taking both his empty and yours in the fingers of one hand. “I’m making the trip anyway.”

“Uh, sure.” You watch him walk into the kitchen and glance back at your friend, who seems to have been watching the whole exchange with a mischievous face. She and Dean were both sporting dopey, childish grins as they shot you thumbs-up gestures, linking their fingers together and retreating into your friend’s bedroom. For the night, you assumed. 

When Cas returns you spend some time talking. He tells you how Dean and he had become friends in their freshman seminars and both became T.A.’s in their respective departments (Dean in engineering, Cas in English.)

You tell him about your job at the campus paper and he asks about a recent cover story he remembered and somehow, before you know it, you end up in a heated debate over the greatest American writer. There was something infuriating yet endearing about the way he waved his hands around talking about his favorite David Foster Wallace essay or the way he teased you over misquoting the line in that Whitman poem. 

You hadn’t realized the party had started winding down until the playlist seemed to reach an end. You see that the last group of people were shuffling their coats on, waving goodbye as they walked out to make a stop at the bars before last call. 

You’d migrated closer to Cas as you finished your second beer; you were almost hip to hip. His arm hung lazily over the back of the couch behind your shoulders. 

“I guess it’s just you and me,” he shrugs, licking his chapped lips. You weren’t drunk, but damn you were horny. 

“You waiting for Dean? Because I don’t really think —“

“Dean will be fine,” he put his empty bottle down. “I just liked talking with you.”

And you’re not sure who moved first, but suddenly you were kissing. You liked the feel of his stubble and way his hand gently fell into your hair. Your arms slide up to wind around his neck and you shift into his lap, leaning back as his lips trail down your jaw to your pulse point.

“You taste like your shitty IPA,” you mutter between breaths and he chuckles into your neck, you feel the rumbling through his belly. 

“Shut up,” he blows into your neck and you squirm. He raises an eyebrow but continues to bite at what will probably be a cute little bruise under your jaw. You feel like a teenager and instead direct his face back to yours. He hums.

You’re content to kiss Cas for a while, but in the back of your mind you’re wondering if the extra room in the apartment (a closet-sized flop room that a foreign exchange student used to sublet) still had a bed. You put your hand on Cas’ chest, looking over at the room with a conspiratorial glance. 

“Shh,” you hold a finger to your mouth. “Come on!” 

You run, socked feet sliding along the wooden floors, tugging him behind you before slipping into the empty room. The bed is still there, actually dressed in faded plaid sheets from their last guest’s visit. 

“I like the way you think,” you push him against the wall, standing on your toes to kiss him again, your hands slipping to flip your fingers over his shirt, unbuttoning in a hopelessly unsteady rhythm. You shoot out a silent prayer, thanking the Gods of sex for swimmer bodies as the shirt falls to the floor. 

Your hands wind up his body, sliding up his sides and eliciting a deep release of breath.

“I show you mine, you show me yours,” he smiles through your kiss and you call him a dork as he begins his own (yet significantly more graceful) button trail, taking your discarded shirt and tossing it over the end-table before mimicking your motion, hands sliding down your waist to rest on your hips.

And maybe you just weren’t expecting his fingertips at that exact moment, but the initial shiver also encouraged a small giggle, made worse when he squeezed your hips and asked “You okay?”

“F-fine!” you jerk a bit in his hands. And there that eyebrow goes again, this time with a stupid closed-mouth smirk.

You pull his face back to yours and he starts to walk you both toward the bed, supporting himself over you with one hand as he deepened the kiss. 

“You’re beautiful,” he mouths into your neck, hand sliding down your sides, fingertips trailing enough to make you squirm. “Ticklish?

“Pft. No!” You feel your cheeks turn pink. You’re pretty much incapable of being sexy and aloof ever. 

“You know, people who deny being ticklish with a panicked face have to be statistically more likely to get the crap tickled out of them,” he says casually, smile hinting at his lips as he sat up and straddled you. 

“I have no idea what yo —“ you let out an undignified yelp as his hands shoot to your sides and stomach, wiggling deliberately and viciously over the skin. “Waahahaayt!”

You got that Cas wasn’t your typical hook up, and you’re still not sure how it came to this. Still, there was something refreshing about how playful he was, the way he kissed enthusiastically and deeply, the way he argued about poetry and laughed into your neck. You weren’t hating it.

“It’s actually really adorable,” Cas eased up to press a kiss on your lips. “You have a cute laugh.”

“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “You are such a dork.”

“I’d be careful who you said that to,” he wiggles a hand over your stomach and the anticipation gets you laughing. “What? I haven’t even touched you.”

He poked a finger at your belly button to punctuate. 

“Youhoure a jeheherk!” You try to contort your face into a scowl, reaching for his hands and holding them both in yours. You wrestle with him for a second, but something tells you he isn’t trying to hard. You’re both laughing like idiots when a knock comes on the door. 

“Hey can you two keep it down a little bit?” It was Dean’s voice. “Some of us are trying to have normal people sex around here.” 

“I think I like our foreplay way better,” Cas whispers to you, fluttering his fingers over your rib cage with a wink. 

“I swear to god,” you grab at his hands again and hold them up and away from you before quickly pinching your fingers at the softest part of his waist. Your smile is too big when he clutches at his sides and he lets out a quick stream of breathy laughter.

“That’s it,” He grabs your hands and quickly shifts them into one of his, pinning you to the mattress, brandishing his free hand like weapon. “You’re asking for it.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” You kick your feet wildly as the fingers of his free hand trace along your your collarbone and spider under your arms. It only takes a few seconds of this to get you going, shaking your head against the mattress as the sensations drove you crazy.

You never found yourself saying “no,” though. It felt like it had been so long since you laughed this hard, particularly for this reason. 

Cas seemed delighted by the ways your laughter changed volume and pitch depending on the spots he attacked. Between the more violent fits you could see this impish look in his eyes. You curse him for being cute and having scarily lethal fingers.

He lets up after a few seconds, releasing your hands and shifting off of you with a grin. He leans his head on one hand, eyes bright and pulls your face back to his for another innocent peck of a kiss. 

“You are the worst,” you heave out, but the residual smiles are impossible to keep off your face. 

“I’m sorry,” he snickered. “You are just so much fun to tickle.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes and roll on top of him to kiss him in earnest. “Shut up.”


End file.
